Everything that's gold does not glitter

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ON THE SEAT OF A PIT TOILET AT A TINY REST AREA OFF U.S. 395 IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

My wife was driving. We were on the way home from yet another work-related trip to a remote corner of California.

“Ha-ha, laughs and giggles,” I told my wife. “This is funny but I really, really need to stop and use the rest room as soon as we see one. Funny, I know, because there’s no place to stop.”

We were in the middle of nowhere, amidst hayfields on both sides of Highway 395, 65 miles south of Alturas CA, 116 miles north of Reno NV. Luckily for me, a sign appeared on the horizon, “Rest Area 1 Mile.”

Sure enough, we came upon said rest area and I toddled off to the side of the building marked “Men’s.” Happily, no one was occupying the premises.

To my chagrin, as I bolted the latch, I found myself in the dark. I felt around for a light switch and found none. By the bit of sunlight coming in through three small grates, I stared deep into the filthy bowels of what I vaguely recognized as a pit toilet. Perhaps it was the lack of a flush handle that gave it away. Or perhaps it was a flashback to a camping trip with my family when I was eleven years old. Six of us crowded into a tent, and my father would wake up to ferry us to the latrine in the middle of the night by flashlight. The venue was a campground near the tiny town of Gilboa in upstate New York. I had no idea that the place was named after the location of a Biblical battle, but I did develop an impressive case of butt rash.

I hope I avoid that ignominous fate in my current situation. In my urgency, however, I was left with no choice but to grit my teeth and sit down. I count my blessings, for there is not one, but three rolls of toilet paper at my disposal here.

I brought some trash from the car to dispose, but no trash basket is in evidence. Worse, however, is the fact that there is no sink. So, after squatting over this putrefying hole, I won’t even be able to wash my hands.

Oh, gee. Some poor soul is rattling the door handle, desperate to get in. I hear a slight moan, and then what can only be described as a retch. Listening to the wretch retch, I can only feel sorry for this poor person. “Look,” I privately reason with him, “you can puke your guts out on the lawn of this rest area, making a horrible mess in the process, and everyone will take pity on you. I, on the other hand, do not have the option to drop trou, grunt loudly, and violently defecate in the sunshine without being promptly arrested for indecent exposure and summarily hauled off to jail in the CHP paddy wagon. And what would I tell my boss when I call out from work tomorrow? You, my friend, can call in sick. I, on the other hand, will have some splainin’ to do.”

Back at the car, my wife gripes about finding a similarly disgusting situation in the women’s room. “Do we have any hand wipes?” She asks. “Ah, we have one left. There should at least be a place where you can wash your hands!”

We share the single remaining pre-moistened towelette as we fly down the road. We need to find someplace to stop for lunch.

But first, we need to wash our hands. With lots of hot water and soap.

It is difficult to adequately explain the intensity of a five-day Scrabble tournament to one who has never experienced it. Yes, it is a grind to play seven or eight games per day for days in a row. And you can’t help but notice the yawns and drooping expressions on the faces of the competitors when the last round of the day is underway and it’s close to 6 p.m. But we always come back for more, spending thousands of dollars and our precious annual vacation time to fly and drive around the country to do it again. As one of my opponents here at Word Cup 7 explains, “it’s like heroin to the vein.”

Merry Scrabble addicts all are we, counting the days until the next tournament, eagerly anticipating the next fix.

Scrabble truly is an all-ages game, as is borne out by the wide range of players here. Over the last few days, for example, I have been soundly trounced by a boy who is on his summer vacation after having finished seventh grade, as well as by a very old lady who has to be close to age 90. The boy, who has won prize after prize here, tells me that he practices with his mom’s boyfriend. Then he kills me by over 150 points. The old lady tells me that winning or losing doesn’t much matter to her and that she’s just glad to still be here and able to play. Then she puts her word prowess on display and proceeds to beat me to pieces.

And we come from all over. The tournament director drove here from Iowa, while the Minneapolis-St. Paul area is well represented by a contingent that traveled from Minnesota. There are players here from Arizona and Florida and Oregon. I am one of five Californians who made it out to New England for this event.

The local newspaper and TV station show up with cameras to shoot video and stills and interview some of the players. The mayor sends a representative with a proclamation. It is a big deal locally.

Many of my fellow Scrabblers have never been to Springfield before, but to me it is something of a homecoming. I lived here for three years while attending law school back in the 1980s. I am pleased to discover that a few of the eateries that I so enjoyed back then are still around and thriving decades later, serving new generations of students.

In many respects, however, it makes no difference what city we’re in when we are caught up in the excitement of the game. When we shake hands and shake our tile bags, announce our scores and hit our clocks, it’s as if we’re lost in another world.

“Hey, did you hear that Trump fired Scaramucci after eleven days?” one of my fellow players announces between games. Indeed, I had not. Accustomed as I am to reading three or four newspapers online each day, I suspend my usual habits when attending a Scrabble tournament. For here, under the crystal chandeliers in the grand ballroom of a big hotel, the world goes away for a while. All that matters is finding that next big play for 90 points, chasing after the elusive triple-triple and notching up another win on our tally sheets.

The Indiana Tollway, representing the joinder of Interstate Routes 80 and 90 from Chicago east into Ohio, runs along the most northern edge of the Hoosier State. Last night, we stopped late in South Bend, famous as the home of football powerhouse Notre Dame University. This is not my first time in Indiana; once, years ago, I stayed the night in Indianapolis on an unhappy cross-country trek with my parents, from Boston to California. I admit to having only a vague concept of the state, a mishmash of images from TV — the Indy 500 auto race, brutal maximum security prisons, discrimination against gays under Vice President Mike Pence (in his days as state governor) and cornball family values à la “The Middle.”

But Michigan somehow feels different. Despite the media’s images of Detroit’s blight and violence, of former auto plants, now boarded up and decamped to Mexico, my thoughts drift to the Holland tulip festival, to the hallowed halls of Ann Arbor, and to the Mackinac Bridge and the Upper Peninsula. With Lake Michigan on the west and Lake Huron on the east, I think of sailboats, seagulls and saltwater taffy.

All of this is foolishness, I know, for Michigan is likely no better or worse than Indiana, its esteemed neighbor to the south. By pure happenstance, however, Michigan will always occupy a special place in my heart as the final piece of my puzzle. For Michigan was, until Monday, the last of the 48 continental United States that I had yet to visit.

I explained to my wife that the Indiana Toll Road flirts with the Michigan border without ever inching over into the Wolverine State. To pull this off would require a bit of strategic planning. We could head north from South Bend into the Niles, Michigan area, but the map seemed to indicate that finding our way back to the interstate might involve some complicated road wrangling. On the other hand, we could proceed about 50 more miles along our trek east and exit the interstate just the tiniest blip south of Sturgis, Michigan. I even found a pizza parlor with a website that promised a decent lunch in Sturgis.

The exit we’re looking for, I told my wife as we entered the freeway and collected a toll ticket, was Star Mills/Sturgis. If we got off in Star Mills IN, we’d be less than five miles from Sturgis MI. My face fell as I examined the list of exits on the toll ticket. No Star Mills. No Sturgis. What now?

I harbored the unreasonable hope that perhaps some minor exits went unlisted on the toll ticket. Then again, I reminded myself, some exits may be closed as several were in the Gary/Hammond area near Chicago. A more likely theory, I realized, is that what looked on the map like an exit to State Road 9 was actually not an interchange, but a mere overpass or underpass. Visions of returning to California with only 47 states under my belt danced through my head. ABM would be my new self-deprecatory joke. All But Michigan.

As we approached a town named Howe, I knew we were getting close to where I wanted to be. Could the Howe exit get us there? And Howe? (Greet adversity with horrible puns, I always say.) The sign does say Highway 9. That looks promising. And then, just before the off ramp, a small sign appeared, “Sturgis.” (No mention of Michigan, as if the Indiana authorities wouldn’t dare utter another state’s name. Foreigners!)

My wife was driving, and I all but yelled “Here! This one! Get off here!” We paid the toll, headed north on Route 9 and were greeted about a minute later with the sign pictured above. A few minutes later, we were enjoying lunch at Mancino’s on Centerville Boulevard in Sturgis, state of Michigan.

Now that I’ve visited each of the 48 contiguous states, what’s next? Well, there’s only one thing left to do. Onward to Alaska and Hawaii!

As a longtime Californian, a few things stand out among my impressions of the Great Plains and Midwest:

Open space. Driving north on U.S. 85 from Spearfish, South Dakota to Belfield, North Dakota, we saw hayfields on either side of the road, and little else. Waving grasses across the flat land, broken occasionally by a little rise, followed by more long views. In California, hay is generally bundled into large rectangular bales, but here it is rolled up in what looks like giant jelly rolls, some sealed in plastic. The few tiny towns we encountered consisted of a church, a school, a bar, perhaps a convenience store or tractor parts shop, and a few houses. And cows, lots of cattle. My wife says it’s like Little House on the Prairie, while visions of Ole Rølvaag’s character Per Hansa come to my mind.

Green. It feels as if we’ve fled the burning of California. Ten days ago, we made a quick trip from Sacramento to Los Angeles and back for work. Down on Thursday, home on Friday. We drove south on Interstate 5, only to find ourselves stopped on the Grapevine, just short of Santa Clarita, as firefighters battled a blaze not far from the road. Following this delay, we vowed to return by another route. Heading north on Highway 101, we encountered more fires, marked by huge plumes of smoke that could be seen for miles. Meanwhile, back in our own neck of the woods, half of Butte County was evacuated as a result of the Wall Fire. The hot summer has left California an amalgam of grasses burned brown by the sun and earth scorched black by flames. But here in the Dakotas, Minnesota and Wisconsin, the lush greenness feels like another world. The millions of evergreens of the Black Hills gave way to the Dakota grasslands. Finally, the deep green of the leafy trees lining both sides of the local roads here in the upper Midwest soothe my soul and remind me of my childhood in the East.

Casinos. I had no idea of the extent to which gambling has taken hold in Montana and the Dakotas. Just about every town has a few video slots at the local gas station/convenience store. And, no, I refuse to dilute its image by calling it “gaming,” as all the roadside signs do. Is that, like, hunting big game? Or video games like Xbox and Atari? I know! I’m headed across the country to Springfield, Massachusetts to participate in six days of gaming. Scrabble is a game, right?

Nickel pokey at a truck stop in Osseo, Wisconsin

Friendliness. I am impressed by how nice everyone is. Nearly everyone we have encountered has treated us as valued guests, from waitresses to hotel desk clerks to store personnel. It seems everyone wants to know where we’re from, where we’re going and what route we’re taking to get there. As a native New Yorker who now calls California home, this is not something I’m used to. It is heartening that the brusque “Whaddya want?” attitude, so pervasive on the coasts, has not seeped into the American heartland. This gives me hope for humanity.

U.S. 16, the road from Rapid City to Mount Rushmore, is studded with tourist kitsch of every ilk and description. Reptile Gardens. The Dinosaur Museum. Bear Country USA. A wax museum. Miniature golf. You can just hear the kids in the cars yelling “Mom! Dad! Pleeeeeease??”

But that’s nothing compared to the raucous assortment of rock shops, souvenir emporia, tchotchke mongers and cafés lining the main drag in Keystone, two miles from the famous faces carved in stone. As a result of the association of Theodore Roosevelt with the monument, it seemed that about half the commercial establishments contain “Teddy’s” somewhere in their names.

We picked out a likely looking café for dinner; the food was quite good, but the accommodations lacking. Perhaps I should have been tipped off by the middle school sensibility of the rest room signs that read “Pointers” and “Squatters.” So call me dense and clueless. Guilty as charged.

We had three choices of seating: Perched on high tops on the main floor, up a steep flight of stairs to normal tables, or outdoors. As we are no longer able to comfortably climb either stairs or chairs, we ended up eating out on the patio. With the sun beating down on us. In 95 degree heat. With flies landing on our food every two minutes. Psssstt! Ever heard of a little thing called the ADA? It’s a really lovely law that we have in our country to protect those of us with disabilities, and I believe South Dakota is still part of the Union. Well, last time I checked, anyway. Um, should I have brought my passport?

My wife has about had it with my griping, and I can’t say I blame her a bit. My generally poor attitude has been exacerbated by my own stupidity in bringing along only one pair of shoes, a pair that, as luck would have it, offer no support whatsoever and are painful to walk in for even the shortest distance.

Happily, my sour disposition took an about face as we drove up the mountain, rounded a curve… and suddenly, somehow unexpectedly, there it was in all its glory, Mount Rushmore and its famous presidential faces. We came upon it all at once, unprepared even, and joined two other cars in pulling off the road to gawk, mouths hanging agape in awe and amazement. The only experience I can compare this to is stepping out of Paris’ Trocadéro métro station to find the Eiffel Tower right in front of me.

Let’s just say that no photo of Mount Rushmore you have ever seen can begin to compare to the view in person. I now understand why people from every corner of the earth have this site on their bucket lists.

As the sun was rapidly setting and we had done a long day’s drive to get here, we will return to the monument in the morning to visit it properly.

I have long had an eclectic appreciation of popular music. During my childhood, my father introduced me to big band music and show tunes; later, I got into ’50s doo-wop and then country music and finally the hits of the ’70s and ’80s. I pretty much lost track of pop music around 1990.

This can mean only one thing: I’m getting old. The music on my iPhone largely represents the days of my youth. And I guess I’m not alone. A lot of us Baby Boomers are starting to sport silver hair, serve as fodder for AARP and create commercial opportunities for all things retro.

To verify that my musical tastes are in line with the masses of my generation, I need only to visit a store or restaurant and pay attention to the background music piped in through the speakers. Last night, for example, as we perched on stools at a casino bar in rural Nevada and stabbed at the video poker machines, I couldn’t help but notice that the house music was the Sirius XM channel 80s on 8. As I sipped my soda, I realized that nearly every song I heard is on my phone. Cyndi Lauper? Check. Madonna? Check. Michael Jackson? Check. Bananarama? Check. Men at Work? Bon Jovi? Prince? Check, check, check. I guess my age group is supposed to have money and has thus become the target audience to woo.

This morning, we stopped for breakfast in Twin Falls, Idaho. As we checked out the menu, we heard “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” followed by the Honeydrippers’ version of “Sea of Love.”